


B-Side

by RootCellar



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RootCellar/pseuds/RootCellar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a song in your heart.  He's sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	B-Side

This song, he thought, was no good. The instrument's remains were quieting and cooling beneath his frame as he mused. No, no good at all. It lacked pizzazz, that unique and perfectly suited punch that gave a piece its solidarity and strength. There was no one to blame but himself, of course; he simply hadn't performed with the proper skill that night. A day passed and he reflected, dwelling on the usual travails of the suffering artist.

The others didn't understand, but they didn't need to. They were left-brained. He wasn't sure what that meant or how he knew the words, but they had to be true. They lacked vision. Bonnie would go on about crushing this and maiming that, Chica would moan and groan about ingredients, and Freddy would wax philosophical on whatever contrived rationale he decided to go with on any given night (honestly, it always seemed to change), but to him it was simple. It was art.

A famous creature of flesh once said, "The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between." He tried to take that to heart, and could only interpret the intent as placing enormous meaning in every action. A sliced tendon would elicit a sonorous trill whenever he deemed necessary, but there was something special that deviated between instruments. And like the quoted said, it was the moments between his movements; those sublime, tantalizing seconds when electricity raced to inform the instrument of the music yet to come. 

One could hardly blame him for savoring it. The anxiety was almost intoxicating, stretching on and on as the string came to the realization of its plucking. As said, not all instruments were the same. Some would stutter, acting out noisily before he could even begin his concert. Others began the music of their own accord entirely, and those never performed anything worth hearing. Better to silence a dismal tune completely than indulge in a sub-par expression. That kind of thing was as novel as a toilet on a wall.

Tonight he would try something new, compose in a daring new direction. Usually he began at the bottom, but perhaps this evening he would start at the top. Maybe the sound would be different. Does the music present itself differently when the instrument can no longer see? Is there a poignant irony in a device that makes sounds that it cannot hear? 

No, the last one was silly. And arrogant, if he was being honest. The instrument was part of the audience as well, of course. It had to be able to hear, at a minimum. What sort of self-absorbed primadonna played only for themselves, after all? Perhaps Freddy, he thought, on a bad night. If he were inclined. Or properly incensed

The bear didn't seem interested in attending tonight's solo, which left him a little dismayed. He wasn't sure why after all this time he cared, but the usual audience duopoly was ho-hum. The others floated hither and thither, but they never cared. Freddy could at least appreciate some of the more technical aspects of his performance. As a professional he could appreciate that.

The old, tiresome rule stated that he had to sing as he began the concert proper. He didn't mind, really; he was a tenor, and his throaty vocals were mighty and inspiring on their own. His audience thought so at least. Still, he was never a vocalist at heart, but a musician. A consummate professional player of music and the tools thereof. And the words always dulled as they left his voicebox, tinged with boredom and repetition, until they lapsed into a shrill alto. Quite frankly it was embarrassing, but it was what it was, and that was the agreement.

Like any professional he did what he could and smiled, belting a tune as he ran. The doorway greeted him openly, and the night was set. Tonight's instrument looked a little larger than usual, but no matter. A craftsman never blames his tools, and Foxy had yet to find one that didn't eventually become a compelling part of the production. As he slid within the studio the door slammed shut, the red light blinking on as it fell. The music and the maker locked eyes, and the latter grinned as he drank in the moment.

The recording session was about to begin.


End file.
